bare
by twigcollins
Summary: small fluffy one-shot, Alistair and semi-generic player character.


"Alistair, you've seen a naked girl before, right?"

"What?" His left arm aches, a Darkspawn getting in a lucky hit he still managed to block, but badly, jarring every muscle from his shoulder down through his chest. It's enough of a distraction that he knows he couldn't have heard that right, at least not from his fellow Gray Warden. Morrigan, maybe, though she's back at camp, poring over some documents from the Circle - he didn't ask how she got them, and can't quite bring himself to care.

"Girls. Naked?" The question startles him enough that he misses the slight edge in her voice.

"Of course I have. I mean, not so many-" A snicker from Zevran as Alistair fumbles badly between being adaquately manly and not offending the hell out of the girl - woman - everyone seems to know he has a crush on. It's not like he came out on this patrol because of that, anyway - there's no way in hell he's leaving any Gray Warden alone with an annoying elf who'd tried to kill them not that long ago, however disinterested he seems in it now. The fact she's got her warhound with her, well, she still might _need_ another sword and it might as well be him and-

"Maker be praised. I didn't want to be the one to destroy your virtue."

He doesn't get it, even as they get into camp and he hears the first clang of metal against the ashy ground. Leiana's cooking something - rabbit, probably. At least the Darkspawn they'd run across were alone, no victims, no bodies, and so he actually feels all right with eating meat tonight. He looks up, just in time to see Leiana's eyes widen, and Wynne says 'oh my,' a bit of firewood in her arms, and there's another clang behind him.

He turns around, as the Last of the Couslands pulls off her mail shirt and the undershirt beneath it, and with a slight curse the pants quickly follow.

"What- what are you-" Alistair pretends the sound he makes is something other than a squeak.

"I'm soaked in blood and bits of whatever the hell it was we just fought, and I'm really getting sick of it." It's true, her hair half-matted and splashes of darkness on her face, her throat - and Alistair tries to drop his eyes down to the next safe spot but no, she lets out a tight little laugh and the pants are gone and she doesn't wear, how can a noble girl _not_ wear - Alistair quickly spins around on his heel.

"What are you doing?" Her voice, amused and gentle, the question that really belonged to him, didn't it? She sure doesn't sound like she's naked in the middle of camp. "It's fine, Alistair. You kept that thing from taking my head off back there. You're perfectly entitled to the benefits."

"I don't… I really don't think this is appropriate."

One final thunk on the ground, though he can't imagine what it is, and she lets out a deep, relieved sigh. "No, probably not. But Leiana and Wynne are both girls, Morrigan's not even here, and Sten could care less, right?" A pause, with no audible answer. It would almost be worth turning around just to see the look on his face. "I'm sure as hell not showing Zevran anything he hasn't seen before, right Z?"

"I find it is a lot like snowflakes," the elf says, as openly and happily ogling as Alistiar is deliberately not looking. He can hear her moving around camp, picking things up, gathering the gear she dropped, and it really doesn't sound any different, it doesn't, but he's still nearly shivering, his mind filling in all the blanks so effectively he might as well turn around.

"I can warm up some water after I'm done cooking" Leiana says, and the Warden makes a pleased sound. Wynne must have pulled out some sort of robe or blanket, he can hear a polite apology.

"Not until I get this… stuff off of me. It's disgusting. Alistair, for the Maker's sake, you can't just stand there forever. Turn around!"

So he does, because it's practically an order and because he's not going to be the only one not looking - and no, he's not _really_ looking - and when he does, she's just sitting on the stump of a tree near the fire, elbows on her knees in that pensive, girlish way that he really loves to see. Their leader is quite possibly the youngest in the party, though she commands like a veteran, all steel and pragmatism. Nonchalant the rest of the time, even now when she's naked, picking at wide streaks of blood on her hands, elbows, arms, and there's more on her back, anywhere it could seep through. She really did take a bath in it, didn't she?

"You're hurt." Alistair says, catching a trail of blood that looks different from the rest, and he's rewarded with an arch and a twist, small breasts bobbing a little as she stretches to examine an ugly red line down her side, sighing in more annoyance than pain. It's not at all a sexy gesture, which only makes her more the more desirable. Alistair can't really imagine a woman in his life who knows nothing of battle, would rather have the Warden's lithe, muscled body pressed against his back, solid and steady in his arms. Fighting at his side, a pair of trusted eyes covering his back, and as a Warden they could stay together, even when they went to the Deep Roads - Maker's blessing they even lived that long - and in the darkness neither one of them would be alone.

"Here." Morrigan says, appearing from her own camp, putting down a pot she'd obviously had over her own fire, steam rising from the surface of the water. "Just in case you feel like wearing clothes again today."

Her tone never fails to irritate Alistair, all the more because he knows she's delighted that it does, forever taunting him for being unable to do anything about it, or her. He's alone with this particular grudge, his fellow Gray Warden responding to all of Morrigan's pithy barbs with warm smiles. Like now, as she stands up, giving Alistair all he could ever ask for of pale legs, slim thighs, and the curve of one of the most perfect asses in all of Ferelden.

"You're a goddess, Morrigan," she says, gratefully taking the simple gift. Alistair isn't capable of the one thing that seems to throw the witch off her stride - honest good cheer and kindness. Morrigan blinks, recovering quickly with a sly smile.

"I think that's a bit… premature."

The Warden laughs, wincing slightly as she shifts the small cauldron and it pulls at a sore muscle somewhere. The Mabari is quickly on its feet, ready to guard.

"I'll be making myself decent. Just shout if we get attacked again. Scream like a girl if it's the Archdemon."

"Would you like some company? I could wash your back." Zevran says guilelessly.

"How very generous of you," the Warden says wryly, disappearing into a small glen, the bushes quickly hiding her from view.

"Just when do they castrate Templars, Alistair?" He turns to frown at Morrigan, but it's Leiana's eyes he meets first. Staring at him expectantly, and Wynne of all people is standing a little further back with an oddly similar expression. Zevran, who by all logical reasoning shouldn't be where the naked woman isn't, beams innocently at him, or as innocently as an Antivan man-whore assassin can manage.

"I hate all of you." Alistair says.

* * *

She's singing quietly to herself, wringing the cloth over her head, scrubbing at her arms. The Mabari is sprawled at her side, turning to pant at Alistair, tongue lolling out. He's rather glad now, that they got off to such a decent start.

"Wow, Z. You took your time."

Alistair coughs, shifting back and forth on his feet, and when she looks over her shoulder and smiles he can feel his heart flip over.

"Alistair! Did you need something?"

"I'd… uh… I'd heard you were in need of a bit of… assistance."

"So you _are_ my knight in shining armor."

He's glad she turns away, so he doesn't have to worry about the stupid look on his face. He's been hit with spells that don't leave him feeling half so ready to topple.

"Well, a bit dingy and dinged, but it's still armor."

"Take it off then, and come here."

Does she know? Does she have any idea what she's doing to him? It's hard to tell, she has the same casual playfulness with all of them, even flirting audaciously with Zevran, though Alistair doesn't think the elf has yet been in her bed.

He undoes his chest armor and bracers, rather grateful for the heavy leather pants as she shifts a little forward on the rock she's sitting on, and he sits down. The only comfortable position on the boulder is to straddle it, which is, of course, not really that comfortable or appropriate, especially that she's close enough to only have to shift back a little to be pressed against him. Alistair swallows thickly, the cloth she hands him feeling overrough, his whole body suddenly hypersensitive.

"You know, you don't quite act like the daughter of an teyrn."

"But I'm not an teyrn's daughter anymore, am I? Not really."

The quiet bitterness in her tone surprises him – she doesn't talk much about her family or her past. What Alistair knows mostly comes from Duncan's brief introduction – Howe, the bastard, ambushed them, practically murdered her parents in front of her.

She doesn't move except to pull her hair over her shoulder as he moves the cloth across her back, trying to be gentle but having to scrub fairly hard wherever there are dark flecks of blood, working to erase the marks of the battle.

"I just couldn't stand it. The blood. I hate the feel of it. I hate it."

The Taint, the ever-present flickering of darkness, moving along with each beat of her heart – and no, he can't imagine it is much fun for anyone, especially a lady, to be covered in Darkspawn blood more often than not. The sort of shock it must have been, to lose her whole family and be conscripted in the span of hours, no more than a few days. He can't remember if he was nice to her, when they'd first met, or if he could have been nicer.

"Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"Oh, no. No. Nothing wrong with a bit of freedom. More people ought to consider it."

He can hear the playful smile in her voice. "Except Sten."

"Yes. Well… yes."

In far too short a time, despite all his efforts to go slow, Alistair has to admit that he's out of back to wash. The very last thing in the world he wants to do is move, though, with the world all quiet around them. Nothing trying to run him through or gnaw off his arm, and at least the constant threat of death has maybe made him a little more brave, a little bold.

"Would you hate me, if I said that you were very beautiful?"

She laughs, but it's not at all a cruel laugh, and curls a little forward, away from him, bowing her head with a sigh. "I might have, once. I'm still a virgin, you know?"

"Oh?" Alistair can't imagine how he gets that to sound at all normal.

"I'm a Cousland, the daughter of a teyrn. I was to be married advantageously, and my chastity was the means to that end. Not that I cared much for the boys who tried to court me. Half of them wouldn't even face me in the practice ring."

Alistair laughs at her disdain, and she smiles, and he remembers that he's never refused to spar with her, considering it good practice against a worthy opponent, and that maybe her smile this time is actually for him.

It falls away after a moment, her gaze turning inward, hugging her knees close to her chest.

"It wasn't supposed to matter. My brother had already produced an heir. My mother wanted a granddaughter, of course, someone else in the family who preferred dresses to swordplay. But here I am. The Last of the Couslands."

"You don't know, your brother might-" Alistair stops talking as he gets his wish, and she leans back against him, and he's suddenly, completely out of words and has absolutely zero idea where he ought to put his hands.

"I'm really happy, you know that?" Her voice is low, thick with emotion. "I try not to be, because of what it cost. My parents, my sister-in-law, my nephew – it's selfish, it's wrong to enjoy this. Having an adventure, with so many different people. Leliana, and Morrigan and – Maker help us all - Zevran? I didn't think there were so many kinds of people in all the world."

Alistair feels an old, familiar sort of disappointment, not getting what he wants, having to come face-to-face with a truth he'd rather just keep avoiding.

"You like him, don't you."

She glances up at the sky, considering. "I like him for his freedom. I suppose we've all got that now, though, or I wouldn't be sitting naked on some rock in the middle of nowhere." One hand reaches up, to comb a bit through her hair, damp but clean. "I mean, imagine, you and I on some long, tedious courtship. Having to hold hands and pretending at being naughty, just to give the neighbors some gossip."

"I… courtship?" Alistair has very obviously missed the important part of this conversation, and she turns in his arms, looking up at him, her eyes neither as satisfied or as certain as her voice had been.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to. You could still be king. King Alistair, and I'm… I'm not sure… but I don't think I could give you up, once I had you."

"I love you." Alistair has often wondered if he'd ever get a chance to say it, at least to anyone who actually gave a damn about hearing it from him. He thought he'd found a purpose, and a family in the Gray Wardens, only to see that hope crushed when Duncan died, when all the Wardens were slaughtered and he was left alone. Again.

He ought to be cautious, sensible of his situation - of the precarious position they all are in. A Blight is hardly the right time to be thinking about his heart, let alone to risk it so carelessly.

"I love you." Again, just for the novelty of hearing it. It feels good to say after so much misery.

"Do you now?" She says, and her voice is calm but her eyes are alight when she turns again to look at him, "or are you just saying that because I'm naked?"

Alistair's saying it because he's a fool, because he doesn't know how to stop himself, never learned, but when she laughs and falls into his arms, kissing him, he thinks there are far worse things to be than foolish.


End file.
